PROLOGUE
by Hutchie
Summary: Starsky hurts his ankle, and a bossy blond man named Hutchinson helps him to the hospital.  A meeting fic.


Prologue

Starsky felt his ankle give out. One moment he was trying to catch up to the two guys running ahead of him in the park—one dark-haired, one blond—the next minute he felt the quick stab and tilt, the off-kilter sensation of falling mixed with pain that meant a sprained ankle.

He went down with a grunt. His ankle throbbed, and he rolled on his side, reached for it, cupping it in his hands, grimacing, remembering the last time, his last bad sprain. It had been in the jungle….

He always had the suspicion it hadn't healed quite right. He hadn't been able to rest it much. He'd been a bit weak in his right ankle ever since.

Now, for this moment, he was once again in the jungle, with sweat and blood and fear, the ground and the grass cool on his back, the sun searing overhead. The pain in his ankle didn't cover the awful, awful feeling of having to get to cover, needing someone to cover him, being on his own in the surprise and pain of this, and the sudden helplessness.

He was just pulling himself up when he saw the two guys from up ahead approaching. They'd turned back, must've seen him fall. Maybe they'd been keeping an eye on him—had actually been racing him as much as he'd been racing them, trying to stay ahead while he tried to catch up with them.

He'd thought no one could tell when he picked them out like that, for a mental race. And now they'd caught him like this, drat 'em.

He grimaced. "I'm fine, I'll just—" He tried to stand; pique made him unwary. The pressure touched his foot and he fell grimly silent as pain burned through his ankle, insistent and undeniable. His face tightened, and he swallowed. These two guys, standing over him, couldn't even give him the decency to let him alone in his embarrassment and pain.

A perfectly good run, ruined. Who knew how long he'd be out of action? If this was as bad as it felt, he'd probably need a cast.

And how would he possibly get home on his own? He looked up, grimacing, realizing he'd have to swallow his pride and ask these guys for help.

The tall blond bent over, looking down at him with concern, his brow wrinkling. He had very light hair for a grown man, and he had big hands. They reached down, moving a little as if nervous, but he didn't touch Starsky.

"Anything we can do?" he asked. "I'm Hutchinson—this is Colby." He introduced the dark-haired man, who gave Starsky a rather cryptic nod. Colby stood back, not quite as engaged as Hutchinson, watching closely, perhaps a bit skeptically.

"Pleased t' meetcha. I'm Starsky." Best to just get it over with. "I need to get to my cah. Could one of you lend me a shoulder?"

"We both could." Hutchinson moved forward and started to help him up. Then, he hesitated a moment. "If you don't mind, actually, I think I can carry you."

Starsky let out a snort. "Carry me? You're not strong enough!"

"Am too." With that, big arms hefted—under his legs, and behind his back, and Starsky found himself in the firm grip of the blond man, pressed up against him, up in the air. He put one arm around the man's shoulders quickly, to hang on. The other was squished against his side where Hutchinson had a grip on him.

The blond man's chest and arms were warm from his run, but at least he didn't smell bad.

It gave Starsky an odd feeling, being carried like a little kid, as if he weighed nothing. But at least it didn't put pressure on his ankle. Hutchinson was right, he was strong enough.

For an instant, he had the fleeting wisp of a childhood memory—his father lifting him and carrying him somewhere; how everything had seemed shorter from so high up. How very safe he had felt in those big, hairy arms.

That nostalgic memory nipped painfully at his heart, and he halfway wanted to tell this guy to put him down, to shut that feeling away.

But he did need help, and somehow, oddly, he also felt safe with this guy.

"My cah's over there. The red one." Starsky wriggled a little, getting his arm free and pointing.

"Don't squirm," said Hutchinson, in a grunting sort of voice. It i_was_/i an effort for him, then. That gave Starsky some small measure of comfort. He was pretty sure he couldn't have lifted another man as easily as Hutchinson had lifted him, and it was nice to know Hutchinson found it at least a little difficult.

They reached the car, and Colby moved ahead, to open the door. Hutchinson then managed to get Starsky settled onto the front seat. He drew back, and ran a hand through his hair. "Think you can drive?"

Starsky hadn't thought of that. It must have showed on his face. He usually used his right foot for driving. "I guess I can drive with my left."

"We'll drive you," said Hutchinson.

"No, you guys have done enough."

"Probably should see a doctor for that." Hutchinson pointed to the ankle. "You don't want to mess with an injury like that. They can be tricky, you know. Scoot over. I'll drive you. I don't mind."

Starsky hesitated. This guy seemed competent, but— Could he just say, 'I don't know or trust you guys, I'll drive myself?'

"Thanks, I'll manage," he said instead.

But he must have hesitated too long. "Scoot over," said Hutchinson in a firmer tone, making as if to get into the car. "I'll drive you over. Colb, you'll come pick me up, at the hospital?"

"I don't need to go to the hosp—"

"Sure," said Colby.

"Shouldn't be more than a few minutes," added Hutchinson, still to Colby.

Starsky, with an internal sigh, moved over and let the bossy blond man into the car. "Here." He handed his keys over with a distinct lack of goodwill. "I can do it myself, you know."

Hutchinson didn't say anything. He started Starsky's car on his first try and pulled onto the road. The dark haired Colby jogged back the way they'd come.

"Are you always this bossy?"

Hutchinson cracked a rueful smile. "I've been accused of it before." He had a wide grin, rather nice, and just a little goofy. Starsky felt himself grinning a little in return.

Then he sighed, and drummed his fingers on his thigh. "How am I gonna make it in the academy this way?" he muttered.

"The Academy?" Hutchinson's eyes snapped to him. Starsky found himself pinned by a piercing blue gaze. "You're entering the Police Academy? Why, that's what Colby and I were training—"

"Watch the road," snapped Starsky.

Hutchinson abruptly turned his gaze back. He kept silent now.

After a moment, Starsky said, "Both of you too, huh?"

The blond said, "Uh-huh. Both of us, too."

Starsky eyed the blond in a new light. He didn't look quite the type, somehow. Oh, he was strong enough, certainly—but something about him seemed too refined, somehow—his clothes too nice, his hair neat with a rich man's haircut. He could never be a fierce, two-fisted cop like Starsky's dad. Well, it took all sorts. Maybe this guy would be a good cop. He certainly could be commanding—and he was strong.

"I guess I'll see you there. If I make it, with this sprain." Starsky grimaced, and looked down at his ankle. It still hurt. You couldn't tell by looking how bad it was, and he didn't want to try to feel it out with Hutchinson watching—both because he might hurt himself more, and he might let out a gasp of pain if he did. He didn't want to show any weakness in front of this guy—at least no more than he already had.

"I'll see you then," said Hutchinson. "Listen, I have to go when we arrive. Do you have someone you can call to pick you up, if the doctors say you shouldn't drive?" He glanced at Starsky.

"Yes," said Starsky. He'd call his friend, Eugene Brown. Eugene had recently started calling himself "Huggy Bear" in the hopes of becoming a local character. (It was better than Eugene, anyway.)

"Here we are—short drive." Hutchinson pulled into the hospital, and hesitated. It seemed unlike him somehow. "I'll—just carry you in, it'll be quicker. Unless you want to wait for a wheelchair—"

He groaned aloud. "That's much worse."

Hutchinson hopped out of the car, walked around and scooped Starsky up again. Again, he found himself up in the air again, feeling small and childlike, and slightly squished in those giant arms.

This time, it was a sensation he for a moment fought, stiffening.

Hutchinson gave a soft chuff, almost a laugh. "It's all right, I won't drop you," he said softly, as they entered the hospital.

Starsky smiled ruefully, and found himself relaxing. And then for a moment, he felt really safe. He wasn't normally too keen on being touched, certainly not picked up, but this guy somehow was all right. Despite his bossy ways, he meant well, and he seemed competent and kind.

He carried Starsky to a waiting room chair and set him down on it, gently. Hutchinson gave Starsky a small smile, and then went to the front desk to talk to the lady.

Normally Starsky would have been over there himself, even if he had to hop on one foot. Today he was hurting just badly enough that he was glad to let Hutchinson take charge.

Starsky watched the tall blond man leaning against the counter, telling the nurse about Starsky. Starsky just watched him for a minute, trying to figure him out, figure out what kind of guy would go out of his way like this to help a stranger.

Even if he was going to be a cop, this guy was something different. Maybe even—special. The kind of guy you ought to keep an eye on. The kind of guy you could feel safe with.

He was almost sorry when Hutchinson left the hospital. He left with a quick nod and a smile for Starsky, and then walked out.

But not of Starsky's life.

Classes at the Academy would start soon, and Starsky determined he i_would_/i be fit enough to pass the entrance exam. And then—well, how many guys named Hutchinson could there be? He'd meet up with the blond guy again, and maybe this time, he'd be able to repay the favor and help him out somehow.

i_Watch out, Hutchinson! You won't walk out of my life that easy!_/i


End file.
